The Stalker
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Two shot...Ruined shoes, no pie, a hunt screwed up. Hurt Sam. Awesome Dean. Alternating pov's Published in Blood Brothers Six –2012 A Supernatural Genzine.
1. Chapter 1

THE

STALKER

By: Karen B.

Summary: Ruined shoes, no pie, a hunt screwed up. Hurt Sam. Awesome Dean. Alternating pov's. Two shot. Story is complete.

Disclaimer: Not the Owner

AN: Published in Blood Brothers Six –2012 ~ A Supernatural Genzine.

Thank you Jeanne!

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Sam raced through the gnarly, burr-infested forest, clutching a triangular Styrofoam takeout container against his chest. He'd ditched their dinner the moment he'd laid eyes on the creature, the moment he gave chase, but somehow, for some odd reason he still held onto Dean's piece of pie as if he were holding onto Dean himself.

Sam rounded a Sycamore, his sparkling white tennis shoes sloshing into a large rain puddle, water soaking through to his socks.

He broke out of the woods, surprised to see it was close to nightfall. The sunset burned low and orange across the sky, the scattering puffy clouds tinged ten shades of violet red, melting and swirling together like different flavors of ice cream. The trees alongside the road whizzed past him as he ran, silhouetted black and almost spooky against the brilliant color of the sky.

Sam ran faster, feet pounding against the unpaved country road, toeing up gravel and puffs of loose dirt with each heavy footfall. His brand new tennis shoes were ruined, caked with sticky mud, dirty water squishing inside his wet socks and in-between his wrinkled toes. Dean was going to kill him.

He ran past a whitewashed fence where one spotted cow stood belly deep in the center of the overgrown pasture. A bell rang, brassy and hollow, and the cow mooed loud and long. Another cow in the not so far-off distance returned the forlorn call, painful and low.

Arms and adrenaline both pumping, Sam ran on.

It had all started with cattle mutilations; the unlucky cow's belly had been split wide, spilling its insides onto the ground. Not much had ever been left behind: blood, leathery skin, gnawed bones, but never so much as a footprint.

At first, it was unclear what was killing off the livestock. Could have been coyotes, could have been demons, could have been some sort of sick cult using the cattle for a ritual sacrifice. The Pennsylvania town of all things used-to-be was old and small. Covered bridges, horse drawn Amish buggies, a five-store outlet mall, cornfields, handmade soap on a rope, grandpa's shorts gently blowing dry in the wind, an all-you-can-eat Denny's.

Dean hated Denny's, so it didn't take him long to find a small family-run diner with the best damn all- American rhubarb pie. While Dean ate his pie, Sam researched and interviewed everyone. It didn't take him long. The town was so small and close-knit, you couldn't wave to your neighbor without everyone knowing about it. By the time Dean had finished his pie, Sam had found out exactly what they were dealing with: a bunch of bored-out-of-their-skulls teen pranksters, whacking the county's beef supply just for kicks. The hooligan teens were good; Sam had to give them credit. Picking the place clean, hoping to scare the townsfolk into thinking they were being visited by aliens. Bring some excitement to the town, figuring a little media attention never hurt anyone. Unfortunately for the teens, the whole Roswell, E.T., Aliens-In-My-Attic theory never sat well with Sam or Dean.

Together, they baited and caught the teens fast, delivering them all, neatly wrapped up in a big pretty pink bow right on Five-O's front doorstep. Sam figured it was a job well done, and hopefully the teens would learn a lesson. The job was a pain in the ass, but nothing scary or supernatural about it. And for once, no human lives had been lost. Now that was good times, Sam thought, when they could pull the plug so easily. Leave a town in their rear view mirror pretty much the way they'd found it: all bodies present and accounted for, less a few Holstein.

Dean had happily announced the case closed. "So long. Peace out. Na-na-naa-na, hey, hey, hey, goodbye!" he'd said to be exact. It was time to celebrate with dinner and more pie.

"Crap," Sam panted. Dean was going to be pissed. Really, seriously pissed. They both should have known things in the Winchester universe were never that easy.

Sam ran past an old John Deere tractor, left where it had died, green paint nearly swallowed by red rust, gears more than likely frozen. Sam shivered. Nothing lasted, not man, not machine. Not a happily ended story.

Their celebration of dinner and pie would be put on hold. The best laid plans of mice and men, Sam thought as he ran. He'd read that book, hadn't he? Not a happily-ever-after-story, either. Softhearted, not knowing his own strength, rabbit-petting, Lennie, shot in the back of the head by his supposed father-figure and friend, George. His friend's lousy attempt at saving Lennie from being killed by the vigilante ranch hands. Crap, Sam hated that book.

A cool breeze ruffled Sam's hair, bringing his focus back to the road beneath his feet. Passing a gas station, he licked at his parched lips. Even if the crooked sign dangling from a piece of kite string in the grimy window had read Open, he wouldn't have stopped for a drink. There was no time.

Not glancing back, Sam ran past an abandoned farmhouse, it too, long forgotten. The home's warm yellow paint and sturdy gutters were now stripped by the cruelty of Mother Nature and Father Time.

"Just great," Sam huffed.

Had he really walked this far just for dinner and pie? He was trucking at full speed. Why was it taking him twice as long to run back to the motel?

Chest heaving and nearly out of breath, Sam tossed his hair out of his face, taking a shortcut across a field and slogging through waves of tall, wet grass, mud oozing in at his ankles.

He swiped the sweat dripping into his eyes, stumbling when he stubbed his foot against a jagged rock. Ignoring the pain and the slit on the toe of his left shoe, he leapt over a huge pile of horse manure. The heel of his shoe came down a bit too early, and Sam didn't make it completely to the other side. He slipped, hands pin-wheeling to gain his balance, dropping the Styrofoam container to the ground. Dean was going to be pissed—big-time.

"_Klutz_." He could hear Dean's voice in his head.

Ruined shoes, no pie, a hunt screwed up. Yep, he wasn't going to be really seriously pissed, he was going to be _royally_ pissed_._

"Shit," Sam gasped, slowing his pace and glancing over his shoulder at the pie spilled from the safety of the container. Bits and pieces of gravel and rhubarb mixed with horseshit. Didn't anyone besides them own a car in this town? Sam shook his head in disgust. Forgetting the pie, he ran.

A dog barked.

Sam ran.

The drone of an airplane buzzed directly overhead.

Sam ran.

The colors of the sky stretched and changed, thinning, diluting from brilliant orange to smoky-gray. Sam's legs were now noodle-like and quivering beneath him. This was the sticks, the boondocks, real backwoods country. The town was so small, no map was needed. There was only one long stretch of isolated country road leading in or out. Sam had gone for pie, dinner, and a six pack of beer. Lured into a false sense of safety, he'd left his gun, his cell, and the Impala back at the motel. Stupid scenario had all the makings of a good-old-fashioned black and white horror movie cliché. There were no payphones, of course, now that he'd come to realize no one in the town was safe and there really was a murderous monster on the loose.

What the hell?

Sam was almost out of breath, a stitch in his side threatening to double him over by the time he neared The Dusty Armadillo where they'd been staying. Place was a real shit hole. Broken, noisy air units, soiled bed sheets, a toilet that overflowed every other flush. Never mind the dizzying, yellow neon sign shaped like an Armadillo lying on its back, all fours stuck straight up in the air like the speed bump they were known to be. And all for the bargain price of thirty-two bucks per night.

Sam raced across the pitted parking lot, slipping on a slick, oily spot.

"Aaagghh!" He went down hard, landing on both knees.

Ignoring the lick of pain, the blood running down his shins, and the sound of what he swore was that dead armadillo laughing at him, Sam clambered to his feet and trudged the last few steps to the white door of room six. Using the rusted door key, Sam opened the door and tottered inside, bloody-kneed, dazed, and totally breathless.

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Most the rooms they'd stayed in had some sort of a theme: trendy pink flamingos, the classic old west, funky romantic flowers. This particular room's theme seemed to be shabby turquoise. Shabby turquoise curtains, fake-furred carpet, bedspreads, painted walls, lamps, furniture. Even the friggin' ceiling and the commode were shabby turquoise.

Dean often thought if he couldn't change the world one monster at a time, he'd change the world, one motel room at a time. But right now, all he wanted was his pie.

He sighed heavily. Dad had left them there weeks ago to handle this one on their own. And handle it they had. With time on their hands, it was Miller time.

He'd been waiting impatiently for Sam to return from the diner. If his dork brother had taken the damn car, he would have been back by now. But no, the kid wanted the fresh air and exercise. Dean looked across the room at the small dinette table where Sam's cell sat. And friggin' hell, he couldn't even call to ask Sam where his pie was, be certain he didn't forget it. Just the thought of pie made Dean's stomach rumble. Sam and his I-need-my-space crap.

Staying in the dead-beat, one-horse town wasn't such a hot idea, even if the idea was Dad's. Dean was bored to near crazy. The backstreet boys were in jail. There were no other Casper's in the area to hunt. They should have blown this joint by now, but they were low on funds and their room was paid-up until the end of the week. And Dad's last orders were to wait there for him.

Replenishing their wallets at the local watering hole down the road and the challenge of getting a peek under the hot waitress' hot-pink poodle skirt—no luck there—were the only things to do. But that was nighttime activity. During the day, there was nothing to do but eat and watch reruns of Mr. Ed, and hope to God someone didn't come in and try to paint him turquoise.

Eyes growing heavy from boredom, Dean blinked at the thirteen-inch black and white television set. And damn it, that talking palomino was just creepy.

"Dude, you better not forget the pie," Dean grumbled, closing his eyes, and swiping the sweat from his brow.

It was hot and, of course, the air conditioner—also turquoise—was on the fritz. Dean unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing a hand over his bare chest. Instead of lying on the stupid twin bed, he imagined himself lying on a towel upon a white-sanded beach. He imagined reaching over to the bronzed body wearing a seductive and very skimpy bikini on the towel next to him. Just as his fingers began caressing her shoulder, there came a warm breeze as the motel room door unexpectedly burst open. The image of the bathing beauty sucked away, Dean sat bolt upright instinctively and exchanged warm skin for the cold metal of his Glock that was tucked under his pillow. Sliding the safety off, he aimed at the door, his finger steady on the trigger.

"Crap, Sam!" Dean raised the barrel to the ceiling immediately and flicked the safety back on. "What the hell?" He fell back against the bed's headboard, letting the Glock drop back to the mattress.

"So…rry." Sam drew in gasping breath after gasping breath, shutting the door behind him.

"Dude, I could have shot you," Dean said shakily, glaring at Sam. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Sam couldn't answer, totally short-winded and holding up one finger. _Give me a second._

Dean shot off the bed and crossed the room, dropping to a crouch before Sam, tenderly peeling shredded strings of denim away so he could see. "How'd this happen?" He looked up. "Pie, Sam. You were just supposed to get dinner and pie."

"Tried," Sam teetered, obviously out of breath and energy.

"So where is it? I'm starving," Dean said, in a lame attempt to shrug off his worry as he stood and grabbed Sam by the hand, towing him into the bathroom. He pushed his brother down onto the closed toilet lid. Fumbling in a nearby drawer, he said, "How'd you get so banged up?"

Sam sucked in a breath. "Mini-tragedy." He batted away the soapy washcloth Dean already had in his hand. "We have bigger—" Sam gasped. "There's a—" he rasped. "You'll never—"

"Sam, just breathe and let me fix Mr. Owie and finish having my cow. Maybe by then you'll make some sense."

"Mr….?" Sam cocked his head ever so slightly. "What?"

"Ow, Sam. Mr. Owie." Dean huffed. "Just sit still." He continued to clean up Sam's scrapped knees. "Let me guess. Someone's soul was eaten by a money-hungry Evangelist."

"Dean."

"Or did farmer Jones drown in a vat of cow semen." Dean cackled, dabbing at Sam's bloodied left knee. "Frank's hunting dog had a litter of kittens. Billy Ray pulled his own finger and blew up Taco Bell." He chuckled louder at his own wit, now dabbing the washcloth against Sam's bloodied right knee. _Damn this town was boring._

"Dean," Sam hissed.

"Sorry."

"I'm all right," Sam hissed again, knee jerking away.

"Sammy, just take it easy and let me look at this." Dean got serious, tossing the bloody washcloth aside, grabbing the first-aid kit and pulling out the gauze and tape.

"Dean, can you stop wet-nursing me for just one minute." Sam grabbed Dean by his shirt, pulling himself up to his feet. "Something weird is going on."

"I'll say." Dean gently pushed Sam back down to toilet seat. "Haven't seen you this excited since I got you that Nerf Blaster for your tenth birthday." Dean chuckled at the memory. "Who'd have thought you wielding a fake plastic gun at a park could get me hooked up with that hot chick, Rhonda."

"Damn it! I'm serious!" Sam yelled. "We got trouble."

"Okay, okay." Dean winced when Sam did as he warped his brother's mutilated knee. "Hurts, huh?"

"Pretty much." Sam calmed, blowing out a few breaths.

"So what do you think we're looking at? Sounds like college pledges taking over the high school kid's gig?" Dean grinned dully.

"Dean, shut up and listen, man. I was headed back from the diner when I saw it."

"It?" Dean raised a brow, closing the first-aid kit and standing.

"Yeah. It. It was a man-like creature with gray worm-like skin, ravaging a corpse alongside the road." Sam grimaced. "It took off into the cornfield when it saw me, dragging the corpse with it."

"Wait, you said a corpse?" Dean came to attention. "As in human?" Dean asked gruffly.

Sam tossed his hair out of his eyes. "Unless cows have started wearing Reeboks."

"Hysterical, smartass," Dean grouched.

Sam shrugged. "I chased after it. Thing's fast, leaves no footprints, but the body it was chowing down on left a solid blood trail, so I followed—"

"You followed a monster. A monster dragging a dead body, that left a friggin' blood trail," Dean raised his voice, "without backup, no weapon, no cell." Dean tensed. "Damn it, Sammy."

"I'm fine, Dean."

"Yeah." Dean waved a hand at Sam's torn up knees. "You look fine. So where'd it go?"

"I don't know. It just disappeared, but, Dean, man, I think it was a maumbi."

"A maumbi?" Dean chuffed. "Weird looking creatures, with a dog's body and a rabbit's head, camped out around farmlands and cornfields? You know that's just a hoax, like Bigfoot."

"Looks more like a flesh-eating, worm-like man, with a knife fetish. And it's supposed to have uncanny powers to control machinery. Thing likes to play with and stalk its prey too, before it kills and eats them," Sam corrected.

"Dude, you know that's tabloid bullshit. No hunter has ever seen one."

"Pretty sure I just did," Sam replied firmly.

"And our cow-mutilating teens?" Dean questioned suspiciously.

"Coincidence," Sam deduced. "And now in lockdown."

"Huh." Dean took that into consideration.

"Dean," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, "from what I've ever read, the only way to kill the thing is to tear its beating heart right out of its chest."

"You look white, kiddo. You sure you didn't hit your head and dream this thing up or something?" Dean reached out a hand to check for lumps at the back of Sam's head.

"Dude!" Sam whacked Dean's hand away. "My head's just fine. I'm not seeing things. I'm not some fourteen-year-old vying to get my name highlighted in some mindless propaganda magazine."

Dean eyed Sam for a long moment before grabbing his duffel bag and heading toward the door.

"Fine. Only one thing to do then, Sammy."

"What?"

"Find this thing and rip its heart out."

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The unlit country back road was full of potholes with no white line down the middle to designate sides. The Impala thumped along, a sharp wind blowing in through the cracked open passenger window. Sam ran a hand through his hair, disturbed at how fast it had gotten dark. He glanced over at Dean, solid behind the wheel of his chariot, foot pressed down heavy on the pedal. Sam looked at the speedometer. 80 mph. Still, it seemed like they were moving in slow motion. Staring back out the window, he quivered, noting the vaporous fog that had suddenly crept in. Like long tendrils, the fog seemed to suction cup itself to the car, a living thing trying to hold them back. The sky was pitch-black, moonless and starless. It sent a sweaty-cold chill running up and down Sam's spine. Didn't matter how many times they'd dealt with the darkness, Sam never could get used to that ominous, unknowing feeling the dark always seemed to bring. Shaking off the chills, Sam pulled two flashlights from the glove box in preparation.

"Dean, slow down," he said, leaning forward to peer out the windshield, and squinting to see between the small drops of rain dotting the glass.

Dean eased off the gas, bringing her down to thirty-five.

"Right there." Sam pointed. "Up ahead. That's it." He checked the flashlights, flicking the switch on and off several times, testing the batteries.

"You sure?" Dean glanced over.

Before Sam could answer, the car's engine sputtered, choked, then caught again.

"Ah, baby, what? What is it?" Dean cooed, slowing her down to twenty. "Talk to me, honey pie."

Sam rolled his eyes, watching as Dean lovingly caressed the dashboard.

"Can you please act like a normal person and stop talking to the car like it understands every word you say?" Sam griped.

Dean growled, the car stuttering again. "No, sweetheart." The Impala waned, engine finally stalling, headlights going black. "Don't do this to me, baby."

"You either forgot to add gas or we got company, "Sam stated.

"You really don't know a thing about cars, do you, Sam?"

"Car trouble right where I saw the creature chowing down?" Sam huffed. "I'd say I know enough."

"So what are you thinking?" Dean asked, pumping the brake and letting the Impala roll to a stop in the center of the road.

"Curbside dinner," Sam muttered.

"Or coincidence." Dean put her in Park, and then checked the ignition key, turning it on and off several times.

_Click, click_.

Nada.

He tried the lights, the wipers, the radio, and got more of the same: a big, fat nothing.

"Friggin' fracker!" Dean banged a heavy fist against the steering wheel.

"Really, dude? Baby talking the car, I get, but could you at least swear like a normal person?"

Dean pulled his gun from his inside jacket, and unlocked the safety. "Fine fucking mess, Sammy," he mumbled, checking the clip.

"That's more like it." Sam squinted into the night. To his right was the road. Beyond that, an empty pasture. To his left was the cornfield he'd chased the creature into. Everything seemed dreamy and hazy and out of sorts. He thought about the maumbi chewing on flesh and bone, slurping bloody, soupy insides like a milkshake through a straw

He turned to face Dean and said, "Better shoot like you always shoot, man."

"And how's that, Sammy?" Dean baited.

"Like Eastwood, Pacino, and Wayne rolled into one and overdosed on steroids."

"I'll take that as a compliment, little brother." Dean smiled hugely.

"Was meant as one, big brother." Sam smiled back.

"Sammy, you're such a chick."

Sam huffed in frustration, but said nothing.

Dean gave Sam the "watch yourself" nod, and they exited the Impala, quietly ticking their doors shut simultaneously. There was a tingling in the dirt-and-fertilizer-spiced air. The howl of the wind whipped dead, dried-up leaves and an old newspaper around, adding bushel loads to their unease.

"So, exactly where did you see this thing?"

"Maumbi," Sam insisted.

"Uh-huh." Dean shined his light along the roadside. "I don't see any blood."

"Maybe he came back and licked the platter clean," Sam snipped, annoyed. "Ducked into the cornfield through there." He pointed a finger down one of the long, dark rows.

They both stood scouring the miniature forest of corn. The tall, leafy stalks moved too slowly in the blowing wind, ghost-like and in unison, like a well-trained army of soldiers.

"Okay." Dean, always the first to break the silence, walked to the back of the car. "We stick together, got it?" he said sternly, popping the trunk. He pulled out the weapons bag and slung the heavy duffel up onto his shoulder.

"Maumbi, Dean," Sam reminded. "It's a tight squeeze in there. We don't need to be weighted down. All we need is to put a bullet in it, and cut its heart out."

Dean shut the trunk harder than he had the car door. "Look, Sam. I don't know what you saw. Could be something, could be someone, and could be a sparkling unicorn for all we know. Dad's rules, we go in prepared for anything."

Sam narrowed his eyes and wiped away streams of rain from his face, the action doing little to clear his vision. He knew what he'd seen and he hated Dad's rules. "It was no unicorn, Dean."

Dean glanced back at the field. "You're right about one thing. It's a tight squeeze in there." He turned to face Sam, stepping up close, nose to nose.

They stared wide-eyed at each other for several seconds, a showdown.

_Don't blink. Don't blink. Don't blink, w_as the only mantra running through Sam's head.

Sam blinked first. Damn it, he always blinked first. At least he could win at rock, paper, scissors.

"I win." Dean grinned proudly. "We go this way," he said in a confident tone. He lead the way off the rowed path Sam had pointed out, right into the heart of corn country.

Foggy mist swirled between the stalks, and the pattering drizzle of rain against the large leaves brought that cold chill back to Sam's spine as they slogged onward. Sam fisted the flashlight, its high-powered beam landing on cornstalk after cornstalk. His gun was loaded, safety off, his finger on the trigger. He could fire off a bullet in a split second. That edge didn't make him feel any better; he felt eyes watching them, knew it sure as he knew evil existed.

"I don't like this." Sam bit his lip.

"What's not to like, Sammy?" Dean grumbled at his side. "Mud sucking at our feet, filling our boots. It's good for the skin." Dean glanced up at the sky as the light sprinkle of rain came down like a low pressure shower. "And we have plenty of water to drink."

"Storm's coming in," Sam needlessly stated.

"Look at the bright side, man. We get lost in here, we won't starve to death." Dean shined the beam of his flashlight at the giant, straight stalks towering over them and quivering in the wind. "Corn-out-the- ass." He poked the muzzle of his gun at one of the leaf-wrapped vegetables half-hanging from a broken stem.

Even with their flashlights, the dense mist swirling in their beams of light transfigured every stalk of corn into ghostly apparitions. Flashes of lightning lit the area, turning the hazy fog purple. The howling wind breathing down Sam's neck gave him goose bumps, the large drops of rain pelting his face sharp as wolf's teeth.

They moved farther and farther through the maze of corn, Sam dividing his attention between watching the rear and Dean's back.

Dean pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears. Sam did the same, the action doing little to shield them from the storm.

"Dean," Sam spoke over the wind and rain, "maybe we should—"

"Shh!" Dean's hand suddenly shot behind him, pressing against Sam's chest and stopping him in his tracks. _Quiet_, Dean mouthed over his shoulder, standing in one spot and doing a slow spin, gun pointed readily into the shadows.

Sam's boots sunk into the muddy ground and he stiffened, watching the spark of danger cross Dean's face. He aimed his weapon, following Dean's direction. Despite his distaste for being questioned and treated like a kid, he knew his brother. Dean had been endowed with a sixth sense maybe even a seventh. He had an uncanny act foreseeing the unexpected, before the unexpected saw him.

Sam waited. He was, after all was said and done, a good soldier.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Dean shifted slightly, jostling his gun to his left at several broken stalks of corn. Something was out there. He could sense it nearby, ducking in and out of the shadows, skull-burning eyes watching, boring into him, straight through to his soul. Dean shivered, feeling like an animal being hunted, about to meet its end. Rain started to fall faster, blurring the night. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the cornfield.

"There!" Dean whirled left.

Thunder rolled in the distance, both their guns raising in tandem to aim at—

"Seriously?" Sam grumbled, swiftly lowering his weapon.

Dean stared, dumbfounded, at the stiff, outstretched arms of what he'd thought was their monster. A straw-stuffed body glared down at him from its post, silently bouncing to and fro in the wind and the rain.

"Son of a—" he cursed, also lowering his weapon. The lifeless figure sported a burlap sack for a face, black magic-marker eyes staring sightlessly, thin crooked lips forming a wicked smile. "What are you staring at, fugly?" Dean glared back at the scarecrow.

"Losing your touch, Obi-wan?" Sam laughed lightly.

"Not funny."

"It's mostly funny," Sam volleyed.

"Look, maybe we should take this up in the morning." Dean snapped off an ear of corn, peeled back the husk, picked off the silk, and took a bite. "Before you end up shot in the ass by some farmer thinking you're after his daughter," he said around a mouthful of yellow. "Yuck!" Dean spit the kernels from his mouth. "Need my pie."

"Round and round with the pie." Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, Dean, we need to find it, and fast. It already dragged one person off that we know of."

"That you know of," Dean reminded. "Come on, then." He continued to lead, zigzagging through the tall stalks and trying to let the pattering sound of rain hitting the leaves calm his fear.

A flash of lightning revealed a dark shadow and bounced off the glint of metal, drawing Dean up short.

"Sam!" Dean shouted his alarm, lurching forward, instinctively placing himself between whatever the thing was and his little brother.

All hell broke loose at once. The dark thing came out of left field—literally—crashing into Dean, knocking him flat on his back.

Dean grunted, air forced from his lungs, nearly knocking him out.

He heard a sickening cry from somewhere behind him. Realization hit him a thousand times harder than a double shot of top-shelf Vodka. Rolling to his side in the slippery mud, Dean caught sight of Sam.

"Guh." The kid jolted hard as the maumbi raised a clawed hand and swiped at Sam's jacket.

"Sam!" Dean cried, just able to make out his brother's silhouette as he went down hard to the ground.

Using both hands and feet, Dean scrambled through the mud, slipping backward more than he was going forward. "Sam!" he cried again, watching Sam's hands clutch his belly.

"Dee," Sam gasped, hunching over into a ball.

"S'm!" Dean called, out of breath. "Oh God," he slipped and slid back down. "Shit!"

Too many things were happening way too fast, making Dean's head spin. The wind and the rain were near blinding and deafening. Sam was still on his knees, hunkered over, in obvious distress. The thing—the maumbi, or whatever it was—was stalking them, circling, moving back and forth through the stalks of corn, laughing—if that's what he could call the awful cackling sound.

Dean's throat tightened. He started toward Sam again, but before he could take another step in his brother's direction, he heard his father's voice loud and clear.

_"Stick to the rules of combat. Engage. Secure. Recover. Can't help a fallen solider if you're dead."_

"Sam!" Dean was torn. He couldn't take care of Sam with the stalker/maumbi right there ready to pounce out of the shadows again. "Hang tight, bro!" Unwillingly, Dean changed direction, spurring himself to make a bloody mess out of whatever monster—tabloid or not—had just made the biggest mistake of its pathetic life: hurting Sam. "Get ready to have your ass kicked!" Dean whooped his war cry and ran off.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Ugh." Sam's head had landed with a crack to a rock. Ignoring the flashing lights and ringing bells he made it back up as far as his knees, the stitch in his gut keeping him there, sinking further into the mud. "Dean," he uttered through clenched teeth, watching his brother's fast moving boots blur before he disappeared into the darkness. Sam's brain was foggy, but he saw enough to know what was happening. Dean was going after the maumbi—alone.

"Damn it, no," Sam growled deep in his throat, shoulders hitching up to his ears with each heavy breath. "Dean." Sam awkwardly reached for his gun that had slipped from his hand when his knees had hit the ground, but his movements were uncoordinated and he only managed to push the gun further away.

Sam screwed his eyes shut for a moment.

He was woozy. His fingers deftly found the source of his pain. A chill skittered up his spine, and he felt sick at the feel of the jagged gash along his side.

He stared in the direction Dean had gone. He thought he could hear his brother cursing, the rush of footsteps, the breaking of the large cornstalks, and the sound of gunfire splitting the air. Trying hard to suppress the pain, Sam struggled back to his feet, only to unceremoniously collapse back down to his side. He lay curled in the mud, trembling with wet-cold and weakness.

"Dean." His body involuntarily twitched, then tightened, and he whimpered as another hot wave of pain made him gag.

What the hell happened?

Where was Dean?

Damn his brother for always being overfilled with guts and balls.

Sam's world fogged further, turning upside down.

He was helpless.

He was confused and agitated, sweaty and nauseated. Everything whistled around his head like the wind and the rain, his body began to tingle, and his breathing was far too fast. He knew he was hyperventilating, possibly going into shock.

Sam could do nothing but lay there in the pouring rain, hair plastered over his eyes, unable to help Dean as he promptly passed out.

TBC


	2. Conclusion

The Stalker

Chapter two

Conclusion

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"Sam!" Dean tripped his way back through the forest of corn and through the soupy mud having lost sight of the creature. "Sammy!" He landed on both knees with a splash, hands fumbling to unfold his curled up brother and see the damage.

Sam gurgled deep in his throat, spitting a wad of saliva to the ground, and shoving Dean's helping hands away.

The rain in Dean's face and the shaking flashlight beam in his hand slowed him down to a sloth's pace as he took in the goose-egg sized purple lump on Sam's forehead as he drew his brother's jacket open. "Shit," he cursed, biting into his lip when the light finally caught on the claw mark low in Sam's abdomen. The kid was bleeding all over himself. "Always in the wrong place at the wrong time, aren't you, Sam?"

"Feel—" Sam choked coming around further. "Dean. Feel sick."

"Yeah, I bet." Dean jammed the base of his flashlight into the thick, sticky mud, angling it toward the wound so he could see better and free both hands. "Just take it easy." Dean glanced around, for a second unsure as to what to do first. Spying Sam's gun lying under limp fingers, he gently picked his brother's cold hand up, and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. "Can you straighten out some?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer as he gently unfolded Sam and laid him out flat to his back.

"Gah." Sam sucked in a breath, trying to do as he was asked and straighten out. "D'n," he gasped.

"Forget that." Dean pressed a palm to Sam's shoulder, easily pushing him back down. "Just lay back a second, dude, and don't move." He shrugged out of his soggy leather jacket and balled it up as best he could, then placed it under Sam's head. "It's okay, Sam, gonna be okay," he whispered, never taking his eyes off his brother's face as he struggled to get out of his wet button-down, leaving him only in a white t-shirt.

"Did…did..." Sam licked his lips. "Did you get it?"

Dean shook his head. "No, but it got you, man," Dean stated flatly.

Sam glanced down at Dean's hand. "With what?"

"Claws."

Sam's eyes snapped back up to meet Dean's. "Crap..."

"Sam." Dean immediately bowed over Sam blocking his view. "It's okay."

"God, Dean." Sam swallowed hard.

"Right here, pal, I'm right here." Dean wadded his shirt and pressed it to Sam's wound in his side.

"Geez." Sam winced.

"Easy," Dean whispered, gritting his teeth and wincing right along with his brother.

"Hurts," Sam groaned.

"Yeah, well now that we've established that… you think you can get to your feet and make it back to the car? That wound is going to need cleaning and stitching and you'll be lucky it doesn't get infected and while we're at it we should cut your hair—"

"Is that all?" Sam snorted. "We're in the enemy's zone, Dean. Case you hadn't noticed, it's dark and storming, we got one man down, and the other talks too much and—"

"And you bleed too much," Dean growled, eyes darting around.

"What do you think the maumbi is doing out here?" Sam changed the subject.

"Building crop circles for all I know," Dean deadpanned. "Whatever that circus-freak reject is doing, it does it fast. Scary fast. I was right on top of it when you went down. Went after it... had it in sight, then it was gone."

"It's not gone," Sam said softly.

Dean shuddered, running one bloody hand through his hair. "No kidding. It's stalking us. I can feel it."

"Told you," Sam gagged, titling his head to the side and moaning.

"Damn it, Sammy, could you stop bleeding, already!" Dean picked up Sam's hand out of the gooey mud. "Need you to hold this here, okay?" He pushed Sam's hand down over the wadded up shirt that was already dripping wet with rain and blood.

"Trying, Dean." Sam clenched his teeth, pressing down.

"Try harder, Sam." Dean grimaced, knowing his baby brother was hurting, but having no choices here. "Bro, we need to go now."

Sam turned his head away, face twisted, breathing rapidly. "Give me a…sec," he gasped, drawing his neck far back, mouth working like a guppy to draw in air.

"Damn it, kid." Dean urgently grabbed Sam's free hand out of the mud and squeezing tight. "Breathe. Deep and slow, Sam," Dean instructed. "Deep and slow."

Sam shut his eyes tight.

"Dude." Dean frowned.

"Think I—"Sam made an awful grasping sound,"…might have… My head hurts," he said as his eyes seemed to be dragged by an invisible string straight up into the back of his head.

"Yeah, probably a concussion," Dean informed sadly, bending foreword to peer into Sam's eyes.

For a moment, there was a whole lot of nothing. It was weird. Sam lay flat on his back, eyes open. He could see everything that was going on, but his brain was thick and gooey like maple syrup, and he couldn't make sense of anything. Time blurred. There came a prickling sensation in his belly, quickly turning into burning from the inside out. Sam wanted to cry out, but couldn't. All he could do was stare up at Dean, who hovered close. His brother looked panicked, moving and talking in slow motion. Sam couldn't make out one word his brother was trying to say over the whoosh and thud of his heart in his ears.

The slow-mo effect was making Sam dizzy and nauseated, and it freaked him out.

_Stop_, Sam mouthed, hoping Dean would listen and go back to normal-speed. But he didn't.

The weirdness just got worse. He took in his surroundings. The cornstalks swayed and moved slowly in the wind, cold rain fell, pattering to his face, one drop at a time, pin-like and rough, like splinters of wood.

Sam gulped.

Dean edged closer, his mouth seeming to move faster than his body. All creepy looking, like a horror flick, only it was Dean, so Sam wasn't scared. He reached up a shaky hand and knotted his fingers weakly into Dean's shirt, eyes wide and watching his brother's every emotional tell: the arch of his brow, first one, then the other, the crinkle of his nose, the way his freckles seemed to come alive, dancing about on his cheeks…

Dean suddenly went into warp speed, taking Sam gently by the shoulders and giving him a small shake. "Sam!" his voice booming like a sonic airplane shot overhead.

"Ahhh," Sam rasped. Damn he hurt. Every nerve in his body was coming alive.

"I said breathe," Dean ordered. "You never listen, man."

A hand stroked through his hair, over his cheek, sliding down the side of his neck, pressing against a throbbing vein. "Sam! I'm not doing a solo here. Come on, man!"

Sam latched onto the voice, swam through the heavy syrup, breathing in deep, breathing out slow. He concentrated hard, the effort worth the cost when Dean's freckles stopped dancing. Needle-like cold prickled Sam's skin from the inside out and he gave a teeth-rattling shiver.

"The maumbi," Sam said, struggling to an elbow, fingers searching through the mud. "Where's my gun?"

"Here." Dean carefully tugged off Sam's button-down, then pressed the weapon into his hand. "Happy?"

"Not yet," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Not until we kill this thing," he muttered, keeping his hand tight around his gun.

"That honor is going to be all mine, little brother." Dean used Sam's button-down and wrapped it around Sam's waist. "Gonna hurt a second," Dean announced as he tied the two sleeves together, holding the wadded up shirt over Sam's wound in place.

Sam hissed lightly, but remained still.

"Good thing Dad taught us to dress in layers." Dean gazed up at Sam, brow furrowed. "Let's sit you up, okay?"

Sam wasn't so sure that was okay. The wind picked up, whipping harder, driving the rain into his eyes and bending the corn stalks so far, a few of them snapped. He ducked his head, trying to escape the sharp ping of water bombs biting into his face. "It…it's raining."

"You think?" Dean eased Sam up, holding onto him with one hand and snagged his leather jacket out of the mud with the other. "You got this?" Dean dipped his head, studying Sam's face.

Sam nodded.

"You owe me a dry cleaning, bro." Dean quickly stuffed his arms in his soggy jacket's sleeves, and then grabbed the flashlight and duffel. "And a car wash and wax." He spit rainwater out his mouth and pulled the jacket's collar around his ears as high as he could.

"Owe you…more 'n that," Sam said on a breath.

"Yes, you do," Dean murmured, sliding a hand behind Sam's back, lifting him to his feet. "Owe me some pie. Lots of pie," Dean said in a gravelly voice, shouldering Sam close and holding him steady.

"Grrr," Sam growled, swallowing heavily.

"Let's get out of here before our stalker finds his brain or some farmer really does shoot you in the ass."

The claw-rack burned under the makeshift bandage and Sam's knees trembled.

"Steady, kid."

"I'm good, Dean." Sam gave a curt nod.

"Good. " Dean moved them along, slowly at first.

Sam was woozy and he scrunched his eyes tightly closed. He trudged along, letting Dean guide the way. It was hard to walk through the mud; with each step, his shoes sunk deeper into the brown gooey earth as if it was trying to steal them off his feet. He grimaced, each lift of his foot tugged at belly muscles, and it took all his concentration to ignore the dizziness from the concussion and the loss of blood.

"What're' we doin'?" Sam squinted through half-closed eyes, the rainstorm growing in strength, his waning.

"We're walking," Dean said.

Sam didn't have a comeback, diligently conscious of his task at hand: not puking up his insides and trying to keep up with Dean's lively step. "Sorry 'f 'm crimpin' your swagger," he finally managed to pant.

"You're not," Dean said in a serious tone. "Think you can make it a little farther?"

"Hope so. Are we almost to the car?"

"What do I look like, maize-quest?"

"Map Quest," Sam swiftly corrected. "You don't know…do you?"

"And you're a steamboat of information? You don't even know for sure if that thing is a maumbi or if it's something else out there," Dean challenged, narrowing his eyes and scanning the darkness before him.

"There's a..." Sam took in a sharp breath. "There's a cornfield out there." He gave a half-chuckle, half-grunt.

"Funny."

"Thanks." Sam leaned deeper against Dean, conserving his draining energy as they schlepped their way back toward the car.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Dean was no longer aware of the pouring rain or thunder and lightning anymore. Neither did he notice the brush of cold wind and wet cornstalks whapping him in the face with just about every step he took. All he focused on was his armload of Sam. All he could hear was how hard his kid brother was breathing. How Sam's long, gangly body brutally struggled to keep up, keep his eyes open, the concussion wanting to drag him into sleep.

Sam moaned, left foot crossing over his right, tangling as his legs gave out.

"Easy, pal," Dean soothed. "Ready for a rest, huh?" He winced, tugging Sam upward.

"Jus'…" Sam caught himself, straightening out his feet. "Keep going." He let out a gusty sigh, planting his right foot determinedly to the ground.

Dean shook his head. Dad would be proud to know Sam held firm to the family motto: do or die, but soldier on. "Stubborn ass, just like Dad," he said, stepping up his effort to help keep Sam slogging along through the mud.

"Being a stubborn ass is better than being just an ass." Sam's chuckle of laughter turned into a cough.

"Save it for later, Sammy," Dean said grimly, knowing Sam's stubbornness wouldn't keep him upright much longer. Dean was tiring, too.

They trudged onward in silence. It was difficult for Dean to tell which direction they were heading on the starless, stormy night. The labyrinth of taller-than-Sam cornstalks was hindering his maize-quest senses. Which way back to the car? He wasn't sure anymore. Every row looked the same. Dean kept careful watch, his eyes darting all around, front, back, side-to-side. He was on edge, awaiting further attack. Danger still lurked nearby, of that much he was certain. What was the maumbi or whatever the hell it was waiting for, anyway?

Dean shrugged the weapon's bag higher up on his shoulder, then adjusted his hold on Sam, pivoting him closer to his hip, protecting. "How you doing, huh?" he asked, peeking over at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay," Sam said, obviously trying to ease Dean's worry.

"Dude, your face looks as white as mayonnaise." Dean smirked, knowing Sam hated the stuff.

Sam glanced over. "Least I don't have to look in the mirror and be tempted to play connect the dots, freckles."

"Fine, Miracle Whip, just don't pass out. Now tell me how you really feel."

"Can I puke?"

"Not on my shoes."

They came to a small, open clearing where the cornstalks were mashed to the ground.

Dean panned the beam of light across the ground. "Crop circle?"

"Dinner table," Sam breathed.

Blood glowed red under the beam of light, chunky, chewed-up body parts poking out from under the crushed stalks. Hands, feet, arms, and… Was that an eyeball?

"Gross," Dean muttered, bending down to get a closer look.

Someone laughed in the dark and Dean pulled up short, listening to the sound of feet sloshing through mud, circling around them.

"What the…?" Without thought, Dean pushed Sam protectively behind him. "You having a friggin' good time, freak show?" Dean yelled, his voice carrying far over the field as he drew his weapon.

More laughter, sharp and grating on Dean's every nerve.

"Show yourself!" Dean dared in a low, rough voice. "Come on!" He circled, keeping Sam behind him, eyes darting, and flashlight beam doing little to cut through the darkness.

More animalistic cackling filled the night. Several knives shot out of the darkness all at once, their points stabbing into the ground right up against the toes of Dean's boots.

"What the hell?" Dean barked, stepping backward very slowly

"It's toying with us," Sam determined, both now standing back to back.

"You got suckered, man," Dean bellowed furiously into the night. "I wouldn't have paid a dime for these cheap imitations." He held his gun ready. "You ever hear of the Ginsu steak knife set? They're dishwasher safe! Operators are standing by. Order now, bitch."

Sam tilted his head back against Dean's, panting, "Dude, curb your infomercial fetish."

"Least I don't have a knife fetish like this freak."

Dean noticed the rain had stopped falling and the wind was no longer howling. A thick, cloudy vapor rose up from the ground and curled around the stalks like the tentacles of an octopus. The fog wound higher and higher until it hovered across the corn tops. The entire field was quiet, except for the _drip-drip _of leftover raindrops sliding from leaf to leaf then plopping to the mud-puddled ground.

"It's gone again," Dean said, breaking the long silence.

"Not far." Sam shivered against his back.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. He could feel how cold Sam was. All this was that creepy circus rejects fault. He so wanted to unload his entire clip into the night, but knew better than to waste energy and ammo shooting at unseen targets.

"Told you, maumbis like to stalk their prey," Sam said through chattering teeth.

"You read that in your Woman's Day magazine?"

"Ha...ha, Dean."

"How you holdin' up, Sammy?" Dean got serious, half-turning to take Sam by the arm for support, then stepping around to face him.

"I'm holdin'." Sam grimaced, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Uh-huh," Dean scoffed, shining the flashlight onto Sam's face. The kid looked bad, barely able to stay upright. "You look sick."

"You look wet." Sam straightened his shoulders, trying to put proof behind his statement.

"You look sick and wet," Dean muttered.

"You look sick, wet, and stupid."

"You look sick, wet, cold, and douchey."

"You look—"

"Okay! Enough!" Dean shouted his frustration. "No time for this."

He had to do something now. Traipsing around aimlessly through the cornfield until Sam passed out cold wasn't an option. And playing tag with stalker guy was wasting precious time, wasting Sam's energy. Sam needed to be dry, warm, and stitched up. Only way out Dean could see was to clear a way out. Turn the tables.

The fox was about to become the hound.

"That's it! I'm ending this circus act." Dean dropped the weapons bag at Sam's feet. Clutching his gun tighter, he took a rushed step forward.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Dean!" Sam's jaw squared and he reached out, nabbing Dean by the arm but hardly holding him back. "No, no way you go off alone!"

"What's good for the goose," Dean snarled, half-turning to face him.

"Like you said, Dean, we don't go off alone. We stick together."

"Since when do you listen to what I say?"

"Since you want to play farmer Jones and run off alone after that thing."

"Sam, not debating this, pal. You're in no shape!" Dean glanced at the flashlight still in his hand. "Here." He shoved it at Sam, he wouldn't need it. The light would only announce his arrival to the thing he'd planned to stalk and kill.

"Dean—"

More laughter came from the distance, fading as the thing headed farther into the field.

"Stay alert, Sammy." Dean narrowed his eyes. "And stay right here! If I'm not back in fifteen," he said. "You got to get yourself back to the car."

Sam opened his mouth in protest, but before he could say anything, Dean was gone, disappearing into the moving shadows.

Sam took in a small gasp of air. He was scared. Dean shouldn't be out there alone. He thought about racing after Dean, but knew he'd only slow his brother down. He held his weapon tighter and panned the beam of the flashlight around the field. If the creature headed back toward him, he needed to be on his game.

The wind had picked up again, the cornstalks shifting in waves, mimicking shapes. Human? Scarecrow? Dean? Maumbi?

Seconds past, minutes. Five, ten, maybe fifteen, Sam couldn't be sure. Even with the flashlight, the darkness seemed to touch him like a gloved hand, creepy and overwhelming and dreamlike. Sam rubbed at his eyes with the back of his gun hand and blinked three times in rapid succession. He squinted and strained to see, to hear, to try to get some sort of clue as to what was going on out there and where Dean was. But he heard nothing, and saw nothing. His legs started to shake and his breathing got too fast and the muzzle of his gun drooped lazily toward the ground.

Sam grunted, fumbling for a better hold on the weapon, trying to focus.

The darkness seemed to press down on him. Sam's pulse was too fast, his mouth dry and lips twitching. He wanted—no, needed—to call out to Dean_. _To know he was okay, nearby. But even in his befuddled state, Sam knew better than to distract his brother when he was hunting something. That stupid urge could get Dean killed. Sam shuddered at the mental picture that quickly filled his head. Dean lying gutted, belly split like the cows they'd found, blood running in rivulets down the leaves of corn, mud puddles brimming with red.

The sick image was broken by the very real sound of gunfire not far off and to his left.

Familiar booted feet were moving in a dead run, weaving in and out of the stalks. Then there came the roar of Dean's gun, and Dean calling out to him.

"Your way," Dean's voice floated to him over the tops of the corn. "Sammy, watch out! Headed your way."

"Uggg!" Sam somehow found the strength to race forward, but the pain spiked through his head and his side burned and he had to stop a second, panting hard.

He caught his breath and ran a few more paces, swiping his damp hair out of his eyes

"Dean." There was a buzzing in his head. Growing louder and louder. Sam's legs turned to lead and he belly-flopped into the mud. He sucked in huge gasps of air, heart pounding, fingers fumbling to keep hold of the gun.

"Get it together, Sam, get it together now," he gritted out.

With effort, he found his feet and got back up. Trembling head to toe, he took up a shooting stance facing the direction the commotion was coming from.

Sam waited. He could no longer hear Dean racing through the field. He squinted and strained to listen harder. Nothing came to his ears but dead silence, backed up by a wretched, foul stench that reminded him of rotting meat. Sam fought not to gag, trying hard not to picture his brother torn to shreds out there in the darkness. Suddenly a rush of damp, cold air blew through the stalks of corn, sounding like the waves of the ocean. Then he heard it: a predatory roar. But not from the direction he'd expected. Biting into his lower lip, Sam twisted around. His flashlight's beam landing on the maumbi as it emerged behind him out of the dismal darkness.

The creature looked more human than anything. It was wearing a torn-up red t-shirt, and a custom leather belt holding up faded Levis. Only difference was, the belt was weighted down with an impressive collection of fifteen or so sheathed knives of various sizes, shapes, and kinds. The half-man, half-creature was taller than Sam by four inches, skinnier too, its extra-long, boney arms gray and as wrinkled as its distorted face. Sure, the thing had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but all the pieces were off-center and cockeyed.

It smiled at Sam as if amused, showing off a mouthful of crooked, pointy, razor-edged shark's teeth, gleaming and dripping slimy, thick drool.

Sam raised his gun and fired off a shot.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

For a while, everything was a black blob as Dean weaved in and out amongst the tall stalks that swayed in the wind. The fox leading the hound God knew where. He could hear the thing not far ahead of him, the rush of heavy footsteps, and the breaking of the large cornstalks. His eyesight adjusted as the chase continued. Dean ran at breakneck speed, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of mud, tall stalks, and leaves.

"Where are you heading, you son of a bitch?" Dean huffed, having a hard time keeping up.

A loud, predatory roar brought Dean skidding to a halt. The sound was wrong. All wrong. A sick feeling dropped into his stomach, landing like a brick. The fox was smarter than average. It'd circled back, heading toward his kid brother, the injured, weaker of the two.

Unflinching fear skittered up Dean's spine. "Shit!" He rushed forward, feet moving faster, blazing with fire.

Dean ran in fear; fear made him angry.

He ran in rage; rage made him dizzy.

"I'm coming, Sam," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Hold on."

Gunfire rang out, loud and explosive. Dean picked up his pace, if that was even possible, the sound oddly giving him comfort. It meant Sam was still up, still fighting, still alive.

"That's my boy. Fight, Sammy, fight." He breathed heavily, trying to stay calm and making a beeline through the corn.

It started to rain again and Dean let the patter of raindrops hitting the leaves calm his nerves and drown out his fear, stopping his gun hand from shaking. Everything was happening way too fast, whizzing past in a blur. He wasn't sure what he was heading into, or what he would find when he got there. He hoped he'd find Sam standing over a dead and bloody monster. If not, he'd have to think fast. If the maumbi was still standing, he'd have to take in the scene in a second's flash: note where Sam was, hit the right target, and then gouge the monster's heart out before it could get back up.

Ahead, Dean could see the beam of Sam's flashlight chopping through the darkness, advertising his position.

"Dean," Sam called out to him.

Another gunshot and the maumbi screamed, and the flashlight extinguished.

"Hold on, hold on." Grunting and panting with exertion, Dean cleared the corn and skidded to a halt.

He saw a shadow move, wasn't sure who or what it was. He gripped his gun tight, but kept the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Just then, the moon half-slid from its hideout behind a dark cloud, shedding just enough light for Dean to see.

Raw-anger filled him at the sight of the maumbi bent over his pinned-flat-to-the-ground brother, clutching a knife and about to peel his Sam's skin off like a potato.

"Sam, stay down!" Dean raised his gun on impulse, aiming for the back of the maumbi's head—a kill shot.

Sam wiggled his shoulders up off the ground. "Dean! No!"

Dean swiftly shifted the muzzle away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Alive," Sam yelled as he clung to the maumbi, keeping the creature from fleeing. "Rip its heart out, but alive."

Right. Right. Because this was some freaky tabloid circus freak. Dean reluctantly took a step back and re-aimed his weapon. It took all his willpower to stand back and wait and watch as his brother struggled and fought to keep hold of the creature.

It wasn't easy, but Dean shoved Sam's grunts and groans of pain out of his head, following the two with his gun as they rolled about across the smashed cornstalks, waiting to take the right shot. Waiting to be sure Sam was clear. It would take perfect timing, or he could hit Sammy instead. He could do this. After all, he was Eastwood, Pacino, and Wayne all rolled up into one. Wasn't he?

Dean's hand began to shake and he had to grip his gun with both hands to keep steady, keep tracking, fear mounting and patience growing thin as he waited to take the shot.

Sam and the maumbi tossed about head over heels, blurring together like a couple of alley Tomcats fighting over the last queen.

"Sammy, come on, man, move, move, move," Dean mumbled, licking his wind-chapped lips.

Then his moment came. Sam moved slightly right, the maumbi's right leg open. Dean took a deep breath, aimed, and squeezed the trigger at exactly the same time the moon slid back into hiding.

The round whistled through the air, the bullet thudding into soft flesh, both Sam and the maumbi letting out a cry of pain.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam lay on his back, eyes squeezed shut, taking in huge gasps of air. His chest felt like it was being squeezed through a grape press and his heart felt like it would beat right out the jagged claw mark in his gut.

He wasn't sure what was going on, only knew Dean was somewhere nearby in the darkness. He could hear him breathing, and cursing under his breath. Sam tried to call out to him, but couldn't. He attempted to stand, but his rubber legs gave out and he found himself on his back again, staring up into the black sky as rain started to pelt down again, blinding him further. He turned his head to the right, just barely making the outline of a shadow-man, hunched over a body, raising his arm and thrusting down. The mound underneath him reached up, clawing, trying to stop the attack.

Sam heard the familiar sound of a steel blade meeting wet, bloody flesh, the gruesome, bubbling, airless noise of something taking its last breath. Sam panicked. What if that something was Dean. He couldn't see clearly enough to make out what was what, or who was who.

Sam thrashed in the mud, managing only to sit halfway up. He tried to cry out for Dean, but couldn't get enough air as he continued his futile attempt to get his rubberized legs up under his shuddering body.

The shadow-man was suddenly up on his feet, stumbling awkwardly toward Sam, closing the few yards between them. Sam reached around him, searching for his gun. When he came up empty, he managed to draw a small knife out of his boot, before flopping weakly back to the wet, cold stalks, panting heavily.

Sam blinked hard, knife gripped in his trembling hand, waiting, ready.

The shadow stopped only for a second, seemed to bend down, then started moving faster toward him, slip-sliding all the way. A flash of light passed over Sam, then back again.

Sam raised the knife ready to strike out.

"It's me!" Someone roughly grabbed his wrist, pressing down hard and painful against his thumb, loosening his grip.

"Guh." The knife dropped from Sam's hand and he struggled weakly to regain it.

"Sam," Dean called out breathlessly. "Me, just me."

Sam stopped his struggle, eyes wide and staring. He licked his lips, his mouth dry and tongue numb. Took a minute for the puzzle pieces to form together. "The maumbi?"

Dean held up a cupped palm, blood dripping in rivulets through the spaces of his fingers. "Got it, I got it," Dean breathlessly said.

"That-that's its heart?" Sam nodded at the black mound in Dean's hand.

"Sure the hell isn't an artichoke, Sammy."

"Burn it," Sam stated weakly.

Dean nodded, pulling the duffel close and zipping the bloody heart inside. "Later. Let's get you out of here first." He shrugged the duffel up to his left shoulder then slid a hand under Sam's back. "Can you help me?"

Sam whimpered strangely, his eyes rolling upward.

"Sam! Hey!" Dean gave the side of Sam's cheek a swift, cold slap. "Stay with me."

Sam jerked, body board-stiff.

Dean leaned over Sam, drops of cold, heavy rain dripping from his face. "Sammy?"

"Can't," Sam gasped out of breath, clutching at his bloody wound. "I—"

There was a ringing in Sam's ears and all other sound faded, but the pain in his belly flared. "Dean," he gasped out of breath, his eyes sliding closed, everything fading to nothingness.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

How long he lay in the dark he couldn't be certain. What he was certain of was the unmistakable smell of leather and the thrum of an engine that made his head reel. Still, even with eyes closed, Sam recognized the interior of the moving car, the front seat of the Impala. He could feel his heart beating fast and an unsettling rocking motion was making him feel like throwing up. He tried to remain motionless. Didn't help much.

"_Sam_." The muffled voice floated over the seat. "_You awake_?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but the pain in his belly caused him to tighten every muscle. "Sorry to say," an uncontrolled whimper seeped out between dry lips.

"You'll be okay."

Sam forced his eyes open. He was lying on his back on a soft, warm blanket. Felt good until a bump in the road jostled him, causing him to arch his back. He tensed, lifting his head slightly, forehead thumping against the bottom of the steering wheel.

"Hey." A hand came to his shoulder and rested there gently. "Try not to move, you'll start the bleeding again."

Sam gazed blearily up at Dean. "You make nice pillow…crap." Sam groaned when the Impala hit another bump.

"Try to relax." Dean's hand on his shoulder tightened. "Getting your ass back to the motel, unless you'd rather have me take your ass to a hospital."

"No." Sam lifted a trembling hand, closing his fist around Dean's jacket, though his fingers lacked any real strength. "Just..." He swallowed. "It's not that deep. You can fix it." Sam drew in a deep breath, letting go of Dean's jacket, his hand flopping limply to his chest.

"That'd be me. Dr. Fix-your-ass." Dean chuckled softly. "Another bump," Dean announced a hand quickly nabbing Sam's, squeezing hard. Dean glanced down. "Damn back country roads," he growled. "You okay?

"Wonderful." Sam stiffened, exhaled, then sucked in another quick breath and said, "Thanks for the…the warning."

"Get you a couple shots of whiskey soon as we get to the motel," Dean offered.

"Make that a couple of bottles." Sam greeted Dean's worried gaze with a weak smile.

"Almost there, Sammy, just go back to sleep."

Sleep was what Sam wanted most. He closed his eyes. His breathing was still too fast and now he was sweating, not sure if he was dizzy or sick.

He only made it halfway to dreamland, still semi-aware of the pain, of the bumpy road, of Dean's nervous rambling, lecturing him on the do's and don'ts of pie expeditions.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It wasn't easy dragging his brother's moose-sized body back into the motel, they made it as far as the chair near the door.

Dean sat Sam down, his brother's limbs hanging loosely, while he gathered supplies and put in a call for more clean towels, and then quickly moved to shove both twin beds together, creating one so he'd have more room to work and Sam would be as comfortable as possible.

He turned just in time to see Sam doing a slow slither out of the chair toward the floor.

"Hey, hey." Dean rushed forward two large steps, catching Sam under the armpits just in time. "Mind not doing that, Dopey? It's hard enough here without having to pick your deadweight up off the floor." Dean grunted.

In an unsynchronized fashion, he drug Sam across the floor, both collapsing together—Sam on his back, Dean on his knees—to the bed.

Sam flinched and a small whimper escaped him.

"Okay, okay, it's okay. Here we are," Dean mumbled, fighting to arrange Sam's flappy, listless limbs into some sort of remotely comfortable position.

As Dean gathered the supplies he would need, he listened to the drum of the rain, hard and heavy against the motel room's one and only window. He felt sick, and swallowed convulsively. He never liked it when Sam had a simple case of the flu or chickenpox, let alone a grotesque fleshy pink claw-rack gouged across his side.

Dean knelt on the side of the bed, careful not to separate the two, and laid his fingertips to the side of Sam's neck. Kid's pulse was hammering fast and hard.

Sam twisted feebly away, clearly more out of it than in it.

"Strong and steady wins the race, bro. Crap, Sam, don't move around so much," Dean muttered, laying affirm, but light hand to Sam's chest. "Don't need you rolling off and onto the floor."

Sam settled.

Dean went back to cutting away his wet and bloody shirt and tossing it to the carpetless floor. He then got Sam the rest of the way undressed. Sam's jeans were so wet and plastered to his skin, he almost thought about making a trip to the Impala for a pair of pliers. Finally tossing the jeans on top the shirt, Dean hovered low, examining Sam's wound.

The area had clotted, but there was plenty of dried mud and blood to be swabbed, and way more torn flesh to be sewn than Dean was comfortable with.

"Here we go, bro," he said softly, dipping a towel in the bowl of warm soapy water he'd set on the bed near his knee, and went to work, caringly and as lightly as he could.

Still, Sam moaned under his ministries, eyes scrunched shut, and a deep frown marring his forehead as he shivered hard.

"Shh. Easy, Sammy," Dean said through chattering teeth, still dripping wet and cold himself as he had not bothered to take time out to get into dry clothes.

Sam came first. Always did, always would.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean had hiked the thermostat up as high as it would go. The motel room heating up fast and toasty and warm.

Sam was nearly dry, except for the few strands of stubborn hair plastered to the side of his face. He lay very still, wrapped up like a mummy in blankets, save for the exposed wound Dean was working on. Still the kid shivered with the aftereffects of cold and blood loss.

Dean frowned. He didn't like how very pale his brother looked. "I ever tell you about this hot littlenumber I met in Poughkeepsie?" Dean asked, talking more to distract himself from what he was doing as his stomach roiled looking at the lesion.

Sam's eyes scrunched tighter, an agitated whimper that slipped past his lips his only response.

"Too bad, Sam, if you don't want to hear about it. Because I'm going to tell you anyway, man. So listen up." Dean bent closer, watching Sam's face. Waiting for his brother to say something sarcastic, but all he did was moan, body trembling and limbs limp. Dean dragged a shaky hand through his hair. "So, anyway," he threaded a needle, "Amber's Secret is this small joint with no cover charge, a full kitchen, and great burgers." As he stitched, fresh blood began to ooze from Sam's wound. "Tuesday night draft beers are only a buck a bottle. All night." Dean frowned. "Damn it where is that maid?" He exchanged the now soiled towel for the last clean one. "Can you believe that, Sam? A lousy buck." He nervously chuckled, his free hand reaching up to squeeze Sam's shoulder, while the other put the pressure on.

Sam moaned miserably.

"Yeah, I know," Dean soothed, fighting to keep his hand from shaking. "I thought the same thing. Cheap beer equals skunky beer, but it was cold and refreshing. They've got this private VIP lounge." Dean swallowed.

Sam turned his head away, flattening his cheek into the pillow, but thankfully didn't make a sound.

"No, no, I know what you're weirdo modern day Romeo-self is going to say, but the place is classy, man. They even have this moonlit spa and Amber…she sure can be naughty in the nicest way." Dean stopped to blot away some of the blood and check his progress.

"S…sounds melodramatic," Sam panted, both hands scrunching fistfuls of sheets.

Dean glanced up. "Sorry. We were all out of the good stuff, but I gave you some of the not-so-good-stuff before we got here," he said sorrowfully. "If you don't think you can handle the pain… I can give you the ol' one-two punch."

"Can handle it," Sam gulped audibly. "Wouldn't want you to break your fist on my jaw," he mumbled.

"Going as fast as I can, Sammy," Dean whispered softly

"Be sure that…that you are," Sam said through gritted teeth.

By the sixth stitch Sam's body was shaking involuntarily, yet he didn't make a sound.

"Easy." Dean stopped mid-sew to give him a break . "Sammy, easy."

"Just keep going." Sam choked back a sob.

Dean held still, needle in one hand, the other pinching belly-skin together. "Sam," Dean gave a weak smile, "you can cry. I won't hold it against you this time."

"Bite me," Sam slurred. "Just finish already." He sucked in a deep breath and held it, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.

Dean kept shooting glances Sam's way as he worked, putting in three more stitches before he had to stop. "Sam, you're turning blue around the mouth. Stop holding your breath, man, and pass out already."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head no.

"Stubborn ass!" Dean gave Sam a good, purposeful jolt with his knee.

"Guh," Sam cried out, taking in several short breaths. "You jer—" His eyes suddenly rolled up, mouth going slack as he fell into a dead faint, head slipping off the pillow to one side.

"Sorry, Sammy." Dean bit the inside of his cheek. "You'll rest easier now, bitch," he muttered, going back to stitching.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

**TAG**

Sam groaned. A tickle at the back of his throat caused him to cough and brought a stinging pain to his gut and a new level of consciousness to his being. He groaned again, suddenly nauseated and hot. The sting turned into a sharp tug, coming from his belly, increasing with each breath Sam took. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying hard to put the rest of the puzzle in order.

"_Sam_? _You awake_?" A soft voice said in his ear said.

"Wha'?" Sam mumbled, mentally slow, unable to keep up with the words.

"You with me?" A gentle hand tapped his cheek over and over.

Sam blinked, gazing up at a blurry face.

"Look who's awake?" The foggy face leaned attentively over him.

Sam licked his lips, sluggishly gazing around the room in confusion. "Who?"

"Sammy?"

"Dean?"

"Dude, I need no introduction." Dean smiled down at him.

Sam coughed and winced at the strain pulling on his gut. "What happened?" he asked in a whispery thin voice.

"What do you think?"

"You made me pass out. Cold."

"I made you go to sleep."

"Right, 'cause that sounds so much better." Sam grimaced. "Where are we now?" He asked noting the turquoise walls had been replaced with dirty green.

"Another crap motel. Got a little too hot at the other place...cops snooping around after the maid called them...she barged in with some extra towels at the exact moment you decided it was time to fall out of bed and she got an eyeful of your Frankenstined-ass and freaked."

"Stitches?"

"Fifteen."

"That's it?" Sam asked groggily.

"Isn't that enough," Dean grouched.

"Infected?" Sam asked in a small voice, still breathing heavily.

"Not yet." Dean placed a palm to Sam's chest. "I said slow it down, bro," he said harshly, obviously worried.

"Yeah, okay." Sam let his eyes close and breathed slowly as he was told. At least he thought he did.

A cold compress was placed across his forehead while Dean kept talking, encouraging. Something about applesauce and Jell-O, a fever that kept coming back, bleeding that at least had stopped.

"How you feel?" Dean asked.

Sam swallowed, not wanting to answer.

"Sam?" Dean called, sounding tired and miserable.

Sam forced his lazy eyes opened. "A little bit puckish," he said, squinting cross-eyed around the room. He lay in a lumpy Queen-sized bed, dressed in baggy sweats and a t-shirt. Dean sat next to him on the edge of the bed, worried hazel eyes monitoring his every breath. Sam reached for his side with his free hand, fingers brushing against his bandaged wound. His muscles contracted at the slight pressure, sending a bolt of pain through him. "Damn," he growled, feeling as though he was falling even though he wasn't.

"Hey." Dean's hand on his shoulder stopped his decent. "Don't touch that, you'll break the stitches apart. Screw-up my artwork."

"Wouldn't want that," Sam yawned and switched his focus to the small tray table at the foot of his bed covered in take-out boxes and bags. "Dude, Baker's Square?"

"Four feet out the door and to the left. I feel like a king, Sammy." Dean nodded happily, tucking the blankets tighter around Sam.

"Now I know why you picked this place." Sam nestled down into the mound of pillows behind him. "Looks like you bought every kind of pie they sell."

"What can I say, Sammy? You of all people know how much I love pie."

Sam sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "I know."

"Hey, you okay? What are you doing?"

"Your kingdom awaits, Dean. I'm going back to sleep."

The end...thank you for your time!


End file.
